In the afternoon he went to the window and looked out. He came back to his customary seat on the side of her bed. She looked at him in inquiry.
‘The wind’s getting up,’ he said. ‘Blowing snow up from the fjord in places. I’m glad we’re not out there in a tent.’
‘We’re lucky,’ she said.
‘Very lucky. Are you comfortable? Shall I prop you up?’
‘I’m all right.’
She hesitated, and then said something. Her voice was weak and he did not catch the words. He bent down to her. ‘What was that?’
‘Perhaps it’s silly.’
‘Tell me.’
‘That.’ She pointed feebly. The typewriter case was lying by the foot of the other bed. ‘I don’t …’
He thought he knew what she meant. ‘Don’t like seeing it? I’ll put it out of sight.’
She said, speaking quickly and with more strength:
‘I don’t want that to be with us when I die.’
It was a breach of their unspoken agreement and should have been appalling; but neither was appalled by it. He offered no protestation. He simply said:
‘I’ll take it outside. Will that be better?’
She nodded. ‘You can bring it in again, afterwards. It will be quite safe, won’t it? There’s no one to take it.’
‘Wait for me.’ It had its significance; he bent and kissed her. ‘I won’t be long.’
He had thought at first merely of carrying the case out and burying it in the snow; it would be easy enough to mark the spot so that he could find it when he wanted to. She had said: ‘You can bring it in again, afterwards.’ And she would be lying there, white and unmoving, and this time she would not smile. He found himself saying, as though to that dead body, ‘It was for you – there’s no point in it otherwise,’ and knew that it was true. It was she who had given him hope and redeemed him from failure; he had willingly lied and cheated and stolen for their future together, and now the future was over and done with.
There was only the present, and no room in it for anything but the two of them. No room, certainly, for what he was carrying in the typewriter case.
He climbed up the slope behind the hut; he had gone up there the first day they had been left alone, and found the torn carcases of the two bears, and looked down at the still sprawled figure of Thorsen at the bottom of the ravine. He decided he would throw it down there. Thorsen had wanted it: he could have it. Then he could go back to the hut and tell Sheila; it made no essential difference but he wanted her to know that it had only been for her, and had no meaning without her.
The carcases were stripped to the bones now, and the bones had been crunched and scattered. There were marks of animals in the snow: probably wolves. When it happened, he would not put her outside. He would let the fire go out, and let the cold creep in, and lie there beside her. He brushed away the sick feeling of fear that this thought gave him. The present was not yet over.
Although it was hard to be sure from this height, he thought that Thorsen’s body had so far escaped the scavengers. He leaned over and dropped the case. It bounced on the side of the ledge and broke open and spilled its bundles of paper out on to the rocks below. He watched them scatter on to the snow and then turned away.
Almost at once he saw the grey cloud sweeping across the surface of the fjord. It moved faster than he had expected; in a minute or two he felt the sharper bite of the wind and then the cold, burning harshness of the teeming snow. He let it turn him away from his previous route. If he went over the next ridge, he thought, there would be some protection from the storm and he could beat his way down to the other side of the hut.
He knew he was lost quite soon. Just beyond the ridge he plunged into deeper, softer snow, and by the time he fought his way clear he had lost all sense of direction. The blizzard which, smothering and blinding and freezing, surrounded him, was from the north, and he had a hazy idea that he must struggle across it and down, but the slope of the land here was confusingly different. He plunged again into a drift, and was tempted by the warmth and softness. But he remembered that it was important to keep going; and Sheila, in the hut, was waiting for him.
At least, he thought with relief, he no longer had the case to carry. He was travelling light, as Sheila was. There was nothing now to tie them, or hold them back.
His face had been first cold and then numb. Now, somehow, he felt warmth on it. He tried to look up, to see if in some incredible fashion the sun was shining. Nothing to hold us back, he thought … we can go anywhere we like … to the island she dreamed of … the great golden sun, the warm waters – the feasting and the singing and the dancing …
* * *
In the hut Sheila waited, feeling the tiredness spread farther and more deeply into her body. She tried to speak when it reached her throat and was at first distressed when the words would not come. But it did not matter. When Henry came back he would talk and she would listen. She found a heaviness lying on her eyelids, too, dragging them down despite her efforts to keep them open. That did not matter, either. He would sit beside her and hold her hand, and the touch would be enough.
The wind outside howled more fiercely; she hoped he would come back before he got too cold. But perhaps he had not been long; perhaps the dragging tiredness dragged time out as well. When he came back it would be like that – seconds stretched into minutes, hours, years even.
The wind rattled the door and she saw it open, and saw him stand there, smiling at her. His body was framed against bright sunshine, and as he came forward the sunshine poured in behind him, making the small room swim with light.
‘I waited for you,’ she said; and closed her eyes again.
* * *
Olsen had seen the storm coming up in time for him and Josef and Nadya to get back to the sledge before it engulfed them all. With Stefan and Josef he fought to get the tent unpacked and erected, while Nadya and Mouritzen, with the aid of the longest rope, made a continuous searching arc for the other two. The wind was too strong for them. In the end they had to compromise with a shelter formed by a canvas stretched from the top of the sledge. They huddled underneath this, keeping close together for warmth. At the beginning the freezing wind blew in through all the open chinks, but as the blizzard continued, snow piled up round them and gave them some protection. For the time being they were safe.
As to the rest, much depended on the duration of the blizzard. If it lasted over three days, as the first had done, there was no hope of their surviving it. It was impossible to get at the food, or the blankets. Even in the shelter of the snow, cold would seep in. Already Olsen’s feet were numb with the beginning of frost-bite. Without food their bodies could not fight for long against the Arctic chill. Some of them might survive the night: he doubted if the child would.
This land of ice and snow and bitter winds had defeated them: the effort had been good but now it was drawing to its end. Olsen felt no resentment; rather he felt respect for an adversary that fought so fiercely and relentlessly, and fought, at the same time, with such a wild and burning beauty. Whether one conquered it or was conquered by it, it was a good land, a clean and savage place.
He could see the luminous face of his watch when he pulled his hand from inside his jacket; he had crossed his arms in front of him and tucked the hands in to protect them. The hours ticked by towards the moment when defeat would be made final. When, after the blizzard had been blowing for over four hours, the wind sounded stronger than ever, he abandoned the half-protected hope of an abatement sufficient to let them get the tent up. The cold was in his legs and at his back. He found himself dozing, and no longer struggled to remain awake.
Silence woke him; a surrounding silence in which the breathing of the others was loud, even harsh. He was bitterly cold. Blinking, he saw that it was nine o’clock by his watch. He did not know how long he had slept: it might be morning.
He was at the most exposed end, which made it easier for him to get out without disturbin
g anyone. He pushed his way out through the snow into a night of clear, still brilliance.
There was no moon, but the stars were intensely big and bright, and all across the northern sky hung curtains and rays and arcs of light. As he watched, they changed; shifting, pulsating, dimming and bursting out into new and more splendid forms. A cluster of rays seemed to be slowly spinning on a central axis. High up in the sky there was a corona, such as he had sometimes seen around the moon, but in its centre there were only stars.
He could wake them, and they could put up the tent. In the morning, unless the blizzard returned, they could set out again. In which direction? It was probably safer to go back. If they could get to the hut they would have shelter and warmth and they could try trapping for food. The chances were not good but better, probably, than to continue trekking south now that he had lost his confidence that they were on the right trail.
Olsen felt a deep weariness of spirit. They depended on him, but they meant nothing to him, and there was nothing he could do for them. Between one desperate chance and another, what balance could one hold? More days, perhaps weeks, but in the end there was no difference. He looked at the mound from which he had crawled. It was very like a grave.
He began to walk away, not knowing why he did so, content to stride through the snow under this sky which gleamed in saffron and pink and green. He walked to the south, to the still untrodden land. This was the slope along which they had been advancing when he had seen the storm coming up from behind them. Now he walked alone, untroubled, forgetful of everything but the vast purity of the snow, and the lights which seemed to hang no more than a few hundred feet above his head.
There was a howling in the distance, but of an animal, not of the wind. A wolf, perhaps. The thought gave him no anxiety. Another howled, and another. They were like dogs, he thought, howling at the bright sky as dogs howl at the moonlight.
Like dogs … His stride lengthened. He breasted the ridge and stared. In front of him stretched the broad, ice-bound reaches of a bay. Then to his left …
Here and there brighter, yellower lights were pricked out against the snow. The nearer ones showed the squares of window frames and he could even see the shapes of the houses. That was where the dogs were howling, the huskies sleeping out in the snow. It was the Settlement. Olsen stood staring at it for several moments and then slowly, almost reluctantly, turned back towards the distant mound in the snow.
* * *
Cold and numb and tired and hungry as she was, Annabel could still feel the excitement and wonder of it – to be perched on Mouritzen’s broad shoulders as he strode through the snow, the sky overhead lit with all manner of fireworks … a bonfire night, only wider and stranger, and with the snow, to which she had grown accustomed, once more magical. It was like Christmas, and the grown-ups were all happy, and they were going to some place where there would be fires and hot food and beds.
Her mother and Mouritzen dropped behind the rest. She urged him on, pummelling his head with her small fists as she had done before. But he paid no attention. They were talking quietly together, in the way grown-ups did talk, with the words making sense and yet not meaning anything.
Mary said: ‘You don’t have to go through with it, Niels.’
He laughed. ‘Are we talking of torture?’
‘It might turn into that.’
‘I am happy to take the chance.’
‘You’ve seen how I can be – jealous and vindictive and unjust. I gave you no chance to tell me I was wrong. I just believed the worst of you.’
He was silent. Then he said: ‘Not unjust.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing happened,’ he said. ‘That is quite true. But that was because of Nadya – she did not permit it.’ He paused. ‘I had to tell you this, Mary.’
In a flat voice she said: ‘Yes.’
There was silence. Annabel said:
‘Come on, slowcoach! They’re leaving us behind.’
Mouritzen jerked his shoulders, and she squealed with pleasure.
‘They won’t leave us behind,’ Mouritzen said. ‘We will catch up. You wait and see.’
‘I suppose I ought to be grateful?’ Mary said. ‘To someone like her.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘She said that, didn’t she? She told me she’d brought my man back to me.’
‘She is not bad. You must not judge her hardly.’
‘She loves you. You know that, don’t you? Why don’t you marry Nadya, Niels?’
Annabel said: ‘He can’t, Mamma. He’s going to marry you. He said so.’
Mouritzen jogged her again. ‘That is right.’ To Mary, he said: ‘A man can desire many women. He only loves one. And her he loves truly. Even if she is jealous. Even if she is jealous and scolds him some time when he is not to blame. He still loves her.’
‘But there will be times,’ she said, ‘when he is to blame. Won’t there? Other Nadyas.’
‘I hope not. That does not happen often – a time like that was. And you can keep close watch on me. I will not complain. If you wish, you may set a chain on my neck.’
‘A chain on your neck!’ Annabel echoed. She shouted with laughter. ‘You would look funny!’
‘It wouldn’t do any good,’ Mary said. She paused. ‘It doesn’t matter. What you say about loving is true. Even if he is weak, even if he makes love to other women, she still loves him truly.’
‘He will not,’ Mouritzen said with great firmness. ‘He gains strength from love and will be weak no longer.’
Mary said warningly: ‘And don’t you ever dare quote what I’ve just said against me.’
Mouritzen laughed, and Annabel felt his head vibrate against her. She began to pummel him again.
‘Come on. We aren’t catching up. Do be quick!’
‘Now we make a sprint,’ Mouritzen said. He caught Mary’s hand with his. ‘Come – we will all run together through the snow!’
* * *
There would be difficulties, Olsen realized. At close on forty a man could not give up a career and start afresh without difficulties. Hardships, also. He would forfeit the pension. He smiled, thinking of this. And to do what? He did not even know.
But if now, why not twenty years ago? He knew the answer to that: he had been too young, too confident, too deeply buried still in all the illusions of human commerce. The twenty years had not been wasted. A man came to know himself and to know where truth and beauty lay.
The Simanyis were laughing and joking together, their voices harsh against the cold, still air. Josef clapped a hand against his back.
‘You are too silent, Captain. Cheer up! Soon you will be home.’
Olsen looked up at the sky. He said:
‘I am home already.’
Also published by The SYLE Press
By Sam Youd as Hilary Ford
Sarnia
A Bride for Bedivere
Coming soon: By Sam Youd as John Christopher
Cloud on Silver
Sarnia
Life holds no prospect of luxury or excitement after Sarnia’s beloved mother dies: potential suitors vanish once they realise that marriage to the orphan will never bring a dowry. Yet her post as a lady clerk in a London banking house keeps the wolf from the door, and the admiration of her colleague, the worthy Michael, assures her if not of passion, then at least of affection.
Then the Jelains erupt into her humdrum routine, relatives she did not know she had, and whisk her away to the isle of Guernsey. At first she is enchanted by the exotic beauty of the island, by a life of balls and lavish entertainments where the officers of visiting regiments vie for her attention.
But Sarnia cannot quite feel at ease within this moneyed social hierarchy – especially in the unsettling presence of her cousin Edmund. And before long it becomes apparent that, beneath the glittering surface, lurk dark and menacing forces …
Her mother had scorned those of her sex who tamely submitted to male domination but, as the mystery of her heritage unfolds, S
arnia becomes all too painfully aware that the freedom she took for granted is slipping from her grasp.
A Bride for Bedivere
‘I cried the day my father died; but from joy.’
Jane’s father had been nothing but a bully. His accidental death at the dockyard where he worked might have left the family in penury but it had also freed them from his drunken rages. He was scarcely cold in his grave, though, when another tyrant entered Jane’s life.
Sir Donald Bedivere’s offer to ease her mother’s financial burden had but one condition: that Jane should leave her beloved home in Portsmouth and move to Cornwall as his adopted daughter.
To Sir Donald, Cornwall was King Arthur’s country, and his magnificent home, Carmaliot, the place where Camelot once had stood. To Jane, for all its luxury it was a purgatory where her only friend was the lumbering Beast, with whom she roamed the moors.
Sir Donald had three sons, and Jane was quick to sum them up: John was pleasant enough, but indifferent to her. The burly, grinning Edgar she found loathsome. And Michael, on whom Sir Donald had pinned all his hopes, she disdained.
Sir Donald had plans for the Bedivere line – Jane wanted no part in them.
Coming soon...
Cloud on Silver
A disparate group of Londoners are brought together by Sweeney, a mysteriously charismatic man of wealth, for a luxury cruise in the South Pacific – they know not why. Sailing far from the normal shipping routes, the ship weighs anchor just off an uninhabited tropical island. Whilst its passengers are ashore exploring, the ship catches fire and sinks beneath the waves.